


Is my hand on the flame? I hadn't noticed

by attemptnumbereleven



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Andrés as Gordon Ramsay?, Angst, Fluff and Angst, I'm Sorry, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26901697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attemptnumbereleven/pseuds/attemptnumbereleven
Summary: "I'm not making that dessert.""You have to. It's the only thing that can get us that star.""I'll design a better dessert, then.""You know that's impossible, Andrés.""I only have half of the recipe. You know where the other half is."Welcome to Dali, a top restaurant on the cusp of getting its third Michelin Star. To get the star, head Chef Andrés de Fonollosa is asked (forced) by his Restaurant Manager brother to make a long-forgotten dessert. To make the dessert, he needs some help from the past.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 16
Kudos: 47





	Is my hand on the flame? I hadn't noticed

"I need that steak in sixty seconds, not three minutes, Denver! Get your fucking head out of your ass!" 

Tokyo hates service on a Friday night. Well, maybe that's not entirely accurate. She hates service every night. She particularly hates it on a Friday night.

"Did your fucking ears fall off? I didn't hear your assent!"

"Yes, Chef!"

"Tokyo! Come here. Now. What the fuck is the cook on this duck?" 

Yeah, she really hates service on a Friday night. She pulls the pan she's actually cooking off the heat (as burning the next order of duck would surely be a worse sin than whatever she's already done) and saunters over to the pass. Fonollosa looks over at her despairingly and...claps at her to walk faster. Fuck Fridays, man. 

The plate at the pass looks absolutely fine. It looks exactly like the other twenty she's already put out this evening. Andrés doesn't seem pleased. She braces herself. 

"You'll cook me another."

"What's wrong with it?"

Wrong response, apparently. The offending duck is promptly thrown across the kitchen. It narrowly misses Denver's head. 

"Get out of my fucking kitchen." 

Absolutely fine by Tokyo. She unties her apron and throws it ceremoniously to the floor, high-fiving Nairobi on her way out to the fire exit. She pulls out a packet of cigarettes and lights one. Resting her head against the brick wall of the back of the restaurant, she takes a long drag and blows it out, watching the smoke fade into the night. 

Other than the tobacco between her fingers, she suddenly becomes aware of the smell of burning. Burning caramel, specifically. She looks at her watch, and only counts twenty seconds until Nairobi emerges out of the door. She wordlessly reaches for a cigarette and puts it in her mouth, waiting for Tokyo to light it for her. She obliges. 

"Who's next do you think?" She asks, tilting her head towards the other woman. Despite likely having her own shouting match with Fonollosa, she looks rather unfazed. Just part of the schedule of the evening by now. Prepare ingredients, cook to order, be banished from the kitchen, be invited back in once there are no cooks left in the kitchen, rinse, repeat. 

"Helsi, bless him," Nairobi replies, pouting. It's never a good day when Helsinki gets sent out before Denver. "He tried to defend me." 

Tokyo winces. Bad move. Once she'd tried to defend Rio's plating, saying it was the same as she would have done, and they both got sent out. Which was fine, actually, they made out in the alleyway for an hour. If she's known to intentionally get herself sent out for that reason, well, at least she's consistent. 

It's actually Marseille that's sent out next, carrying two slices of bread. He eats one, while breaking the other slice into pieces to leave for the birds. He's silent, as always, but does nod to them both before sitting against the wall. 

They must be out there for about twenty minutes when Sergio pokes his head out of the door. He looks particularly stressed, but then again, it is a Friday evening after all. 

"He's ready to apologise." 

Tokyo takes one last drag of her cigarette before heading back in. Chaos. Denver's desperately trying to cut steak with one steak and flambé his pan with the other. Fonollosa doesn't even lift his head from the pass, wiping the rim of a plate as he tells the three of them to go back to where they were. 

It's as much of an apology as they'll get tonight. Returning to the duck, she places two new breasts into the pan, with butter, herbs and lets the skin sear. She's really good at this bit, she thinks, as she reaches for a spoon and bastes the duck. There's something quite special about cooking a protein to perfection. People train for years to know exactly how to do something that she'd always been so good at naturally. She pulls them off the heat and slides the entire pan into the oven and sets her timer. Another order for duck is called out, and she's back in the swing of service. It's a talent, to be able to keep on top of so many different things at once, and to make sure that the quality is never compromised. Fonollosa makes sure of that. 

The timer beeps, and she pulls the first set of duck out of the oven. She has to let it rest before she cuts it for plating, so sets another timer, while the second lot goes into the oven this time. It's time for sauce, so she pulls a pan down from the overhead racking and begins to heat the sauce she'd prepared earlier. Luckily, she's only responsible for the duck on this course, so when Helskini brings over the carrots and charred plums for the plate, she gives him a nod as a thank you and begins to plate. She wills her mind to focus, and distantly hears shouting, catching the words 'fucking moron' and 'dropped as a child'. Just Friday things. 

This is the bit she's not so good at. It's just unfortunate that this is also the bit that Fonollosa will crucify her over. In her first restaurant job, the head chef only cared if the chicken was white all the way through. Here, though, at Dali, it's a shouting match if anything isn't perfectly cooked, if the sauce isn't thick or thin enough, if the cauliflower isn't arranged _just so,_ if the plate isn't turned the right way, if the angle of the slices isn't arranged at 57 or whatever degrees. 

She takes her time, because she doesn't really have it in her for what would be the fifth berating from the head chef tonight. She carries the plates over, shouting out 'backs!' just for good measure, and plus, because it's just generally fun. Makes her feel professional. She places them on the pass and looks at him. He looks at the plates, takes a small breath and pulls out his tongs. _Fuck sake._

The worst part about the pass is that he won't let them go until he's made them watch him fix their plate. Some sort of weird ego trip thing. He gives her a curt nod, and she returns to her station.

"Service!"

A curly haired waitress carries out the plates, but not before she looks over her shoulder and winks at Denver, who blushes a brighter red than the beetroot shaving he's currently placing on top of his steak dish.

"Denver! No distractions! It's hard enough getting you to breathe in and out without you getting bored and running after butterflies."

The rest of service goes....well, it goes. It doesn't go without events. Raquel storms in at one point, demanding an expedited order for a high-end guest. It gets swiftly denied. Tokyo is always thankful she's on this side of the restaurant. Front of house sounds a million times worse. Denver drops two plates of, for once, perfectly cooked food. Helsinki cuts his thumb on a peeler. Rio has an uneventful service for once, but does get shouted at length at one point for 'layering potato slices like dominoes. It's supposed to be like fish scales, Rio, fish scales! Do you know what those are? Do I need to take you on a school trip to the aquarium again?' 

As they begin to clear down once the last order goes out (with an apparently unacceptable ratio of sauce to mushrooms), Sergio comes into the kitchen and stands at the doorway. Not particularly a good sign. Especially not after Friday night's service.

"I have had a tip," he begins to say, his word choice careful and considered as always. "that someone will be coming to assess our food in two weeks."

"Michelin?" The chef asks, seemingly interested. 

Sergio nods. 

It's no secret that the brothers want that third star. In the two years that Dali has been open, it has been instilled into every chef that they are to cook as if every night a Michelin auditor was on their way. And now? Two weeks? If Fonollosa was insufferable before, it's going to get a whole lot worse very fast. 

"Andrés," Sergio says, the only one who can get away with using the chef's given name. "I'll be expecting you to make amendments to the menu accordingly."

Watching the two of them talk is very peculiar. She often has to remind herself that they are in fact siblings. She wonders what their christmases look like.

"Understood. I'll start with the specials, then-"

"Actually, I'd like a review of the dessert menu in advance of the visit."

"What's wrong with the dessert menu?"

While the brothers argue about desserts, Tokyo takes a look over at Nairobi and Bogota, both staring at the exchange with raised eyebrows. They don't take well to their desserts insulted either. 

"Nothing," Sergio stutters, and Tokyo can see how nervous he is, as if he's trying to build up to something, but that he can't ultimately get the words out. "It's just...we need something big. A showstopper."

"And what's wrong with the white chocolate one?"

"Nothing," Sergio says again, more irritated. From what she knows about the man who keeps most of himself very guarded, she knows that he doesn't like being spoken over. He swallows before speaking again. He looks especially nervous, as if he knows that the words on the tip of his tongue possess the possibility for disaster. Minutes later, Tokyo will look back and know that they did. "I want you to make the melted gold dessert."

Fonollosa lifts a plate off the counter. For a moment, the light glints off the surface and it shines. It almost looks like a full moon. He looks at it for a brief moment, considers it, and then promptly slams it to the floor. No one gasps. It just seems like another tantrum, but Tokyo can see the tightening of the chef's jaw. That's new. 

"Andrés-"

Another.

"Andrés, stop-"

Another. Then another. He picks up two at once, and throws them in different directions. 

Just as the floor starts to remind her of a Greek wedding, she watches Sergio grab Fonollosa's wrists. 

"I'm not making that dessert." 

"You have to. It's the only thing that can get us that star."

"I'll design a better dessert, then."

"You know that's impossible, Andrés." 

"I only have half of the recipe. You know where the other half is." Fonollosa says, and Tokyo raises an eyebrow at that. How can he only have half of a recipe? The melted gold dessert has never been mentioned before. She wonders what it tastes like, partly because she can see the excitement in Sergio's eyes just from it's mention, but mainly because she's starving. Most chefs aren't hungry after service, desensitised to food, but not Tokyo. She makes a mental note to go through a drive-through on her way home. 

Sergio pauses. Tokyo can see Sergio think, considering his next words. She fears what he's about to say next, because she can see that Fonollosa's already figured it out. His face hardens, twisted in disgust and horror. He gasps.

Smashing plates is an often occurrence, but she has a horrible feeling that he's about to transgress to the next stage of anger. A stage they haven't seen before. Normally after a few plates get smashed, he tires himself out and returns to a mid-level stage of anger. He's predictable, at least. 

"Sergio. _No_. You-" He looks betrayed, shocked at whatever Sergio's arranged. Sergio just looks calm, as if his plan is in motion and to get to the next stage, he just need to talk his brother off of this ledge. 

"I had to."

"Where is he?" Fonollosa asks, pained. She's never seen him like this.

She makes eye contact with Nairobi, who looks just as confused as Tokyo feels. Next to her, Bogota has his head in his hands, shaking his head. Bogota, as well as Marseille (not that he speaks much about that time, let alone at all), worked at the restaurant the brothers owned previous to Dali. When the brothers set up this restaurant in Madrid, they'd quickly recruited the others, and started afresh, never mentioning the previous venture. It was only Bogota who had told the others that they'd all moved from a bistro in Italy. He'd never shared much more than that, but she'd always wondered what had happened there. From his reaction, she suddenly fears that this mysterious 'he' might be a ghost from that past. 

Her answer comes soon enough as a man coughs from the fire exit. She sees Fonollosa's head whip round to see the stranger holding a plate in his right hand. He throws it to the floor. It shatters. The stranger grins devilishly. 


End file.
